began renting tapes of the movies Waltiri had scored. Watching the old films and listening to the background music, he came to appreciate the old composer's true skill.
Waltiri's music was never obtrusive in a film. Rather than sweeping richly forth with some outstanding melodic line, it played a subservient role, underscoring or heightening the action on the screen.
Again and again one day Michael played John Huston's 1958 film, The Man Who Would Be King , reveling the first time in Bogart's Peachey Carnehan and Jack Hawkins's Daniel Dravot, the next in the fine black and white photography and the beautifully integrated matte paintings, and finally in Waltiri's subtle score, not in the least period or archaic but somehow just right for the men and their adventure. Michael enjoyed himself hugely; that one day seemed to put everything in perspective and set his mind aright. Suddenly he was ready to take on whatever might come, with the same impractical bravado of Carnehan and Dravot. He spent the next day gardening, whistling Carnehan's theme over and over again, pulling weeds and trimming back the rose bushes i ~ Cording to the instructions in an old gardening book in Golda's library.
As he trimmed, he thought of Clarkham's Sidhe woman, Mora, and of the way she had trimmed her roses, and of the rose turned to glass that she had given him, that still lay wrapped in cotton in a cardboard box in the guest bedroom.
His mood darkened the next morning, when again the newspaper proved to be a bearer of disturbing news. There was an in-depth article beginning on the left side of the front page and running on through section A for some two thousand words, describing waves of so-called hauntings in England, Israel and the eastern United States.
The phrase "intrusions into reality" occurred several times in the piece, but overall the tone was light. The conclusion was that the incidents had more to do with sociology and psychology than metaphysics. He read it through twice, then folded the paper over and stared out the kitchen window at the pink roses outside.
The phone rang. Michael glanced at his new watch — it was ten o'clock — and picked up the ancient black receiver. "Waltiri residence. Hello."
"Could I speak to Michael Perrin?" a woman asked, her voice crisp and resonant.
"Speaking," Michael said.
"Hello. My name is Kristine Pendeers. I'm with the music department at UCLA."
"How can I help you, Ms. Pendeers?" Michael said, assuming his best (and unpracticed) professional tone.
"You're organizing the Waltiri estate, aren't you? I've been talking with the lawyers, and they say you're in charge now."
"That's the way it's worked out."
"We have a project going here, rediscovering avant-garde music of the thirties and forties. We're interested in locating specific works by Arno Waltiri. Perhaps you've heard of them, or come across them… though I gather you haven't been working on the papers very long."
"Which papers?" Michael asked, though he hardly needed to; events were heading in a clearly defined direction: die dreams, the Tippett Hotel, the bodies of Lamia and Tristesse, the hauntings… and now this.
"You know, we haven't been able to find a single recording of the one we're really interested in, and our collection is extensive. And no scores, either. Just these fascinating mentions in memoirs and newspapers, and in this book, Devil's Music . That's by Charles Fort. Have you heard of it?"
"You're looking for Opus 45," Michael said.
"Yes! That's the one."
"I haven't found it."
"Is it real? I mean, it exists? We were beginning to think it was some sort of hoax."
"I have a concert program for the premiere," Michael said. "The music existed at one time. Whether it does now or not, I don't know."
"Listen, it's wonderful just having something about it confirmed. Do you know what a coup it would be to find it again?"
"If I find the score, what do you plan to do with it?"
"I hardly know yet," Pendeers said. "I
Waltiri's music was never obtrusive in a film. Rather than sweeping richly forth with some outstanding melodic line, it played a subservient role, underscoring or heightening the action on the screen.
Again and again one day Michael played John Huston's 1958 film, The Man Who Would Be King , reveling the first time in Bogart's Peachey Carnehan and Jack Hawkins's Daniel Dravot, the next in the fine black and white photography and the beautifully integrated matte paintings, and finally in Waltiri's subtle score, not in the least period or archaic but somehow just right for the men and their adventure. Michael enjoyed himself hugely; that one day seemed to put everything in perspective and set his mind aright. Suddenly he was ready to take on whatever might come, with the same impractical bravado of Carnehan and Dravot. He spent the next day gardening, whistling Carnehan's theme over and over again, pulling weeds and trimming back the rose bushes i ~ Cording to the instructions in an old gardening book in Golda's library.
As he trimmed, he thought of Clarkham's Sidhe woman, Mora, and of the way she had trimmed her roses, and of the rose turned to glass that she had given him, that still lay wrapped in cotton in a cardboard box in the guest bedroom.
His mood darkened the next morning, when again the newspaper proved to be a bearer of disturbing news. There was an in-depth article beginning on the left side of the front page and running on through section A for some two thousand words, describing waves of so-called hauntings in England, Israel and the eastern United States.
The phrase "intrusions into reality" occurred several times in the piece, but overall the tone was light. The conclusion was that the incidents had more to do with sociology and psychology than metaphysics. He read it through twice, then folded the paper over and stared out the kitchen window at the pink roses outside.
The phone rang. Michael glanced at his new watch — it was ten o'clock — and picked up the ancient black receiver. "Waltiri residence. Hello."
"Could I speak to Michael Perrin?" a woman asked, her voice crisp and resonant.
"Speaking," Michael said.
"Hello. My name is Kristine Pendeers. I'm with the music department at UCLA."
"How can I help you, Ms. Pendeers?" Michael said, assuming his best (and unpracticed) professional tone.
"You're organizing the Waltiri estate, aren't you? I've been talking with the lawyers, and they say you're in charge now."
"That's the way it's worked out."
"We have a project going here, rediscovering avant-garde music of the thirties and forties. We're interested in locating specific works by Arno Waltiri. Perhaps you've heard of them, or come across them… though I gather you haven't been working on the papers very long."
"Which papers?" Michael asked, though he hardly needed to; events were heading in a clearly defined direction: die dreams, the Tippett Hotel, the bodies of Lamia and Tristesse, the hauntings… and now this.
"You know, we haven't been able to find a single recording of the one we're really interested in, and our collection is extensive. And no scores, either. Just these fascinating mentions in memoirs and newspapers, and in this book, Devil's Music . That's by Charles Fort. Have you heard of it?"
"You're looking for Opus 45," Michael said.
"Yes! That's the one."
"I haven't found it."
"Is it real? I mean, it exists? We were beginning to think it was some sort of hoax."
"I have a concert program for the premiere," Michael said. "The music existed at one time. Whether it does now or not, I don't know."
"Listen, it's wonderful just having something about it confirmed. Do you know what a coup it would be to find it again?"
"If I find the score, what do you plan to do with it?"
"I hardly know yet," Pendeers said. "I
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